Lindsey

 

After a good week of staying focused, turning down Anika’s invitations to go out and the rest of my roommates’ requests to join their stupid games when they’re down a player, I’m caught up with most of my work and have plenty to show Jenson. It’s been radio silence with him since our dinner with his mom, and I can’t help but gather all the dangling, loose threads of information in my mind.

His despondence after rehearsals.

The bits and pieces of emotional conversation that floated in from the porch as I scrubbed the dishes.

The traces of mascara beneath Darla’s eyes when they came inside.

His introspective demeanor on the drive home.

It’s all coming back together for Jenson, and still, he’s walking around looking like he’s planning his own funeral. I’m perceptive enough, but there’s something I’m missing. A great big something he can’t seem to get past.

I tell myself to keep my distance, that it’s not my place to meddle in a situation when I’m not fully aware of the history behind it. But he’s growing on me. Not in a purposeful manner; almost like the innate way ivy grows up a wall. He hasn’t asked me for anything, he’s not pressured me for more than I have to give, but still I feel his tendrils making their way through the cracks in my façade, expanding them slowly, nudging their way in. I think it’s only natural to wonder about the man who seems to give and give, yet takes nothing in return.

I check my phone regularly during work. I texted Jenson a few times, but there’s no response. This is new. I never expected his company when I got it, but it’s noticeable when he doesn’t pop in the record store even once during the week or send me random texts about his music.

But there are no surprise Jenson sightings—not at the café, not at my apartment. Not anywhere.

One week transpires, then two, and I begin to get a little worried. I have plenty of other things on my mind, but Jenson tends to drift to the forefront, making everything else take a back seat. I wonder if seeing his mom put more into perspective than I thought. Maybe he realizes the same thing I do, that our relationship is not completely innocent. We are past friends, but neither of us is willing to acknowledge that. At least, I’m not. He’s probably just busy with the band. Doing what, I can’t say, but I’m sure revamping their image is consuming most of their time.

My days, meanwhile, stumble forward like a bike on a flat tire, all jaunted and out of whack, and Jenson’s absence has grown. It leaves a ragged black hole in my days, sucking my thoughts in with it.

Then, I receive a text. Just one measly text, but it stitches the hole back together with loose threads.

I clock out of work right on the hour, shoulder my bag, then make the trek a few blocks over to Midtown. Jenson responded to the message I sent about his finished photo session, suggesting we meet up at the Thai restaurant we meant to go to and never did. My concern for him battles with my hunger, but I guess I’ll be knocking out two birds with one stone: delivering the photos and seeing if Happy Thai makes a suitable stand-in for Chati’s. I’m skeptical, but I push through the door and try to view it objectively. After all, hardly anything will compare to that little slice of boarded-up heaven.

It’s a hole in the wall, painted a garish red and decorated with paintings that look like they might’ve been cultivated at a garage sale. I put those things in the win column for Happy Thai; they’re not trying to be something they’re not. Jenson stands from the booth he’s occupying halfway along the side wall, sans ball cap. I take it he doesn’t feel the threat of being recognized in this little tucked-away place.

As I near him I notice several things at once—that he’s wearing the beat-up leather jacket that’s become a fast favorite in my book, the unruly way his hair flops over his forehead, and the plum-colored circles beneath his weary eyes. He looks both rumpled and delectable at the same time.

All these factors compel me to bypass my side of the booth and slip my arms around his waist. We’re not usually huggers, but he’s wearing that damn jacket and I like the way it smells. How it melds with his signature scent of spearmint and cigarettes and goes straight to my head. I inhale shamelessly.

When we part, Jenson takes my bag from my shoulder and sets it on the bench, close to the wall, before sliding in after it and patting the booth beside him. “So it’s easier for you to show me the rest of the photos,” he says with a wink. I guess we’re going to be that annoying couple who sits together on one side. But I relent easily, eager to get off my feet.

I watch his face carefully as he pours me a cup of sake from the bottle he must’ve ordered while he was waiting, and I hold it in my fingertips when he slides it to me.

“Where have you been?” I blurt. I could’ve used more tact, or tried harder to keep my tone casual, but I’m a week past caring. His appearance spikes my suspicion.

He looks me in the eye almost regretfully. “I was writing.”

“You look like hell.”

“I do that. Kind of forget everything.” When he looks back at the tabletop, I sense I’m onto something.

“Does it help?”

A minute shrug. “It’s what I’ve always done. I don’t like to leave until I get the words out. Sometimes it takes longer than I expect.”

“You don’t have to punish yourself, you know. It’s good to get out, give the words some air. I do some of my best work outside.”

“Ehh. I’m not sure I want to rip my heart out in public.”

I’d like to reference how he doesn’t look much better off having done it in private, but I also don’t want to push him. “I do a lot of my work during my breaks at the café. You should come write with me sometime. It would be nice to have company.” Another sideways glance comes my way, and I manage to get a hand beneath his jacket to poke him in the ribs. He twists away and smirks. “Besides, why do everything like you’ve always done it? It’s a new time. A new you.”

“Thank you for that pep talk.” He playfully rolls his eyes. When I keep peering at him, he throws his hands in the air. “I’ll try it.”

Satisfied, I lift the cup of sake to my lips and tilt it back. It’s warm and tangy. “Thanks. I needed that.”

He puts his hand over my fingers, holding the cup with me, and fills it again. “Long day?” I just sigh in answer. “What do you usually get?” he asks.

“The dumplings, like I said, yellow curry, chicken pad Thai. You can’t go wrong.”

“Okay.” Matter-of-fact, he closes the menu between us and slides it to the edge of the table.

“Aren’t you going to look?”

“Nope. You’re the expert. I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Smart man.”

We place an order for food and more sake, and I stifle a yawn. My roommates are essentially nocturnal and the only moment of peace I can get to work happens to be around three A.M. With everything running through my mind, I haven’t had a moment to rest.

“Has your mom said anything about me?” I ask. We haven’t talked since that night, and even then he was subdued.

Jenson rotates to face me and leans against the wall. “Wondering if you made a good impression?”

“More like wondering if she wanted to know where you found the vagrant you brought to dinner.”

His eyebrows creep upward. “Vagrant?”

“Come on, she’s seen it all. And my style is more 90s band groupie than respectable lady.”

“She has seen it all—the good, the bad, the crazy. Darla King does not judge based on wardrobe.” He smiles to himself. “I think she admires you. She can see that you’re driven and passionate.”

“Darla King admires me?” I feign shock, fanning my fingers over my chest.

He nods. “It’s rare to be so young and yet be so sure of what you want. Finding passion is half the battle. You’ve already found the fuel to your fire, you just have to light the match. And you’re willing to hunt for it. That’s admirable.”

I bite my lip as his tone dips into sincerity, trying not to squirm under his gaze. “I don’t think it’s hard for people to figure out what they want. I think it’s hard for them to admit it. Admitting it gives it life and means more people will watch for it to fail.”

“Are you afraid of failing?”

“I think you can only fail if you have expectations. I don’t. Expectations let you down all the time. My dream is to take photos, and here I am, taking photos. It’s about perspective.” It’s part bullshit, part truth. I’m not doing exactly what I love, but I’m clawing like hell to get there.

He looks down to where his arms are resting on the tabletop and he’s spinning his thumb ring. It’s his tell—the way I’ve come to know he’s uncomfortable or anxious. I force myself to stop messing with my stack of bracelets. That same conflicted look has slipped back into his eyes.

“Your dream was to create music, and you’re back to creating music. So what are you afraid of, Jenson?” Tough question for a dinner between two friends, but it needed to be asked.

Jenson inhales slowly, his chest rising . . . and then our spritely little waitress shows up with our food. She stands back as we ooh and ahh over the dishes, nodding enthusiastically when we voice our approval. And then the precarious moment is pushed temporarily aside as we give in to the aroma from our plates.

I twirl noodles around my fork—moment of truth—before taking a bite.

“Why are your eyes closed?” Jenson asks with a laugh. I open them and shoot him a glare.

“I was making sure I was in the zone to judge it fairly,” I say before swallowing.

“And?”

“And. . .” I look down, swirling my fork through peanuts, chicken, and sauce, thinking. “It’s damn delicious.” I elbow him when he looks triumphant. “Congratulations, okay? You found my new favorite restaurant. But you’re also a goddamn enabler, and it’ll be your fault when I go broke off curry and dumplings.”

“Life could be a lot worse,” he points out, digging into the curry.

“Definitely true.”

We finish dinner without much small talk, then the plates are cleared and I gesture for Jenson to hand me my bag. I set up my laptop and insert the USB, browsing through my files and opening the one from the lake.

“These are some of my favorites. Look, this one looks like an album cover.” I select a photo of his profile, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes squinted against the smoke. He’s looking down at his guitar like a lover, fingers on the frets like he’s coaxing magic from the strings.

“The backlighting puts most of your face in shadow, but the parts that are in view are so much more intense. The mood is everything in this one.”

Jenson just nods, and I scroll through the others. Throughout the whole session he doesn’t provide much commentary other than to agree with some of what I’m saying. I click over to the rehearsal session where I’ve picked out the ones I’m most proud of—of each of his band members and of him. I steal glances to gauge his reaction, but he’s mainly deadpan. His eyes are tightened, scrutinizing.

Once I’ve reached the end of the batch, I bite my lip and push the laptop away, surprised how much his lack of enthusiasm stings. I assumed it’d be heartening to see the return of his passion. I could’ve never predicted he’d appear so . . . bereft.

“If you don’t like them, you can tell me. Any feedback at all would be really helpfu—”

“Hey, the photos are sick,” he interrupts. “It’s not that.”

I focus on my peeling fingernail polish. “Did you have something else in mind, maybe? Another venue you wanted to try out, or a different style?”

“No, it’s not. . . Can I look at this again?” He places his hand on the touchpad, raising a silent question.

“Sure, have at it.”

I sit back and watch as he clicks back into the files, transitioning between the woodsy session and the rehearsal. I wait silently for him to explain the hollow look in his eyes, the displeasure, but he just slides the laptop back to me and blinks away the trance that seemed to overtake him.

“These are awesome, Lindsey. You’re really something. Can you send both sessions to me?”

Taken aback by the sudden change of pace, it takes me a second to nod. “I brought a USB. I can give you both now.”

I pull out my extra memory stick and transfer the files, then hand it over to him. He pulls out his wallet and thumbs through it, handing me a stack of bills. “Does this cover it?”

I close my hand around the bills, knowing just by feel that they’re more than enough. “Jenson, this is way too much. I know we didn’t settle on an amount beforehand, but this—”

“Hopefully covers the shifts you gave up going out of town with me, the short notice I gave you, etcetera. It’s less than you deserve.”

I drop my hand holding the cash I don’t feel entitled to, for work that didn’t quite feel like work, but he closes his wallet and tucks that, along with the USB, into his jacket pocket. I’m too tired to put up a fight. Another open-mouthed yawn reminds me I’ve hardly slept this week.

“Crashing on me already?” Jenson asks. I’m glad one of us is playful, even if we both look like death.

“Sorry. My roommates.” I tuck my laptop away, willing away my drowsiness. “I can only focus on my work when they’re either too tired or too stoned to keep playing their games.”

“Which is outside of normal business hours, I’m guessing.”

“Exactly. Nothing’s open that late, but it’s the only chance I have to get stuff done. So I make do with my room.”

Jenson watches his fingers as he drums them on the table in front of him. Then he lets out a quick sigh, pulls out his keys, and starts twisting one off the keyring.

“You’re probably going to overthink this, but here.” The key glimmers in his outstretched palm. Anyone else handing me a key to their apartment would set my heart racing and my brain into overdrive, immediately scrambling for a way out. With Jenson, I don’t detect an underlying motive for his offering. I open my hand and he drops it into my palm.

“Come and go as you please. It looks like I’ll be busier with the band anyway, so I won’t be expecting you. Whenever your apartment’s too chaotic, use mine. No questions asked.”

I briefly consider the options of returning the key or accepting it. However, the number of times I’ve wished I could banish my roommates from the entire state of Tennessee comes to mind.

“Sure you trust me in your apartment, Jenson? I could still turn out to be crazy,” I say, pocketing the key.

Jenson casually lifts one shoulder. “I know your brand of crazy. Now let’s go get some coffee before you go all Walking Dead on me.”

It might be early November, but that has no effect on the crowds nearing Music Row. We cut through wisps of stragglers visiting the last of the sights even as night falls. But Broadway street only gets more animated as the hours pass, neon lights dancing in the glassy eyes of awestruck tourists. As we navigate the choked sidewalks, Jenson updates me on news of the band, telling me they’re in the early stages of planning the performances that will make up their comeback. Only, instead of excitement, there’s a cold feeling of dread rolling off him. So I do what I do best and try to distract him from his worries, making a fool of myself and dancing to the music pouring out of the bars.

We stop in a tiny corner café for coffee, carrying our to-go cups with us as we continue up the street. It’s probably the most casual of our encounters, and yet it’s somehow not. I’ve met all the people he values most in life, as far as I know, and he’s allowed me to hear things no one else has.

“What’d you think of the rehearsal, by the way? You finally got to meet the rest of the guys.” The question interrupts my thoughts, alerting me to stop at a busy intersection. I finish off my coffee and toss the cup into a bin with his.

“It was interesting to put personalities to faces,” I say. “Carter seemed surprised to see me again.”

When I shift my bag on my shoulder for the thousandth time, Jenson takes it from me without a question, lifting it over my head. He trades me his jacket he’s been carrying since we left the restaurant. I shrug into it while he dons my messenger bag with as much grace as a man could while wearing a bag with bright buttons and badges pinned to it.

“He probably was,” he says. “There haven’t been any repeat appearances between the two of us in a while, if you know what I mean.”

I roll my eyes at him. “And I’m sure he’s protective of you. You can let him know he has nothing to worry about.”

He lifts his eyebrow at me. “You planning on ghosting?”

“What, like you?” I toss back. “And I didn’t say that. I just wouldn’t take your money while I was stealing your heart.”

Jenson breaks into a dramatic rendition of “Gold Digger” by Kanye, clutching his chest with one hand.

I walk ahead, ignoring him for as long as possible, but I can’t help but laugh at his shamelessness. Turns out that for such an intense guy, he can be a clown. Then heads begin to turn. It starts with a few girls, then a group across the street who somehow heard him over the activity, but he pays no attention. Until a group of rowdy, middle-aged women spill out of a restaurant and into our path, and one of them holds out an arm to stop the others.

“Get out! Jenson fucking King? Is that you?”

Amid the suspense of the moment, I glance at Jenson to see if he knows them, but his expression is blank. Of course he doesn’t, but his face has been broadcasted around the world, the subject of magazine covers, records, and advertisements. And right now, the hat he’s been wearing to keep a low profile is noticeably absent, and his easily identifiable tattoos are on full display. He notices half a second after I do that this could be a problem.

“Can I get a selfie?” the blonde who recognized him asks before sidling up beneath his arm and holding out her phone. Jenson smiles for the photo, then turns his sly grin to me and takes me by the arm, pulling me away despite their protests.

We walk, the noise behind us rising as the women excitedly recant their celebrity sighting.

Then people begin to catch on.

“Run,” Jenson says in my ear.

So, we run.

 

 

Jenson

 

“Tripp’s,” I say on an exhale, and we make for the familiar blue neon sign. Pushing through the door, I lock it behind us. There are maybe two-dozen people scattered around the first floor, but none of them seem to know what’s happening just outside.

“Lock the doors during business hours, get kicked out,” Tripp calls menacingly from behind the bar, bracing his hands against the counter.

“Nobody visiting this shithole anyway,” I snipe back, leading Lindsey to the bar. Anyone who doesn’t know us might think we mean it. “Caught some attention outside.”

“What did I tell you about hiding that pretty mug of yours?”

“That the world would cry if I did. Can I get the keys to upstairs?”

Tripp shakes his head at me, slinging his hand towel over his shoulder. But he grabs the set of keys I know are hanging beside the register, tossing them to me. “Now go unlock my door.”

I snap the lock over, then gesture to Lindsey, steering her to the hall that leads past the bathrooms and to the kitchens. She stops short and looks around in confusion when we end up behind the bar where some of the staff are cleaning up from the day, but I unlock the door beside the walk-in cooler and pull her through. We could just slip out the back, or tell Tripp to leave the door locked for our “safety,” but the night is crisp and alive, and I’m high on it. I’ve been shut away too long and I don’t want it to end now.

Behind the door is a shadowy staircase that leads to the storage area above Tripp’s. Ascending the stairs, we reach the first landing and continue up a narrower flight. Unlocking the next door and pushing it open reveals a graveled rooftop.

Lindsey steps out, eyes curious, but it doesn’t take her long to notice the view. She spins around in awe. Tripp’s is a rare gem, and its rooftop is even rarer. It’s nothing special—Tripp could do something with the place, at least put some party lights up for God’s sake—but it offers nearly three-sixty-degree views of the city. At night, with the buildings dressed in lights, bright against the sable sky, it’s jaw-dropping.

“What the hell?” Lindsey breathes, striding across the roof and bracing her hands on the brick edge. “Tripp could definitely be capitalizing on this.”

I duck out of the shoulder strap of her bag, leaning it beside the door. No wonder she looked uncomfortable the whole time she was carrying it, damn thing feels like it’s stuffed with everything but the kitchen sink. “I don’t think he’s interested in that. Something about laws and restrictions. Anyway, he’s content with the bar as it is.” I go to join her, looking past the thirty-foot drop to the street. The sidewalk at the entrance seems to have gotten livelier since we’ve been here, but everyone on the street either doesn’t know we’re up here or can’t see our faces clear enough to recognize us.

“Must be nice not to have to worry about keeping up with the Joneses,” she says.

I look over at her, her wistfulness surprising me. She is always so sure of herself, everything I wasn’t at her age, ten years ago. “I didn’t think you worried about that, either.”

“Of course I worry. I’m only human. If I didn’t, how would I ever improve?”

I think back to that day in the park, her desire to further her career. “Anything pick up since you’ve started posting more music photos?”

She leans her elbows on the short brick wall, tucking hair behind her ear. “Traffic, somewhat. Not much in the way of business, though. My name isn’t noteworthy yet.”

“It’s not a bad idea to have a mentor. I could give the photogs I’ve worked with a call. Get face to face with them, tell them your story. One of them might be willing to take you under their wing and give you some pointers.”

As predicted, Lindsey’s brows draw together and her jaw sets stubbornly. “I appreciate it. I do. But I want my work to speak louder than your name.”

I understand, partly, but it’s frustrating. Being as passionate as she is, I don’t know why she wouldn’t take advantage of every outlet available to her. “I get that. Every great artist wants their work to speak for itself, but sometimes it takes just one foot in the door to stand out in the crowd. I can get you that.”

“I’m fully aware of your capabilities, Jenson. I’m sure you could snap your fingers and have people knocking at your door, lining up for country music’s fallen golden boy. But that’s not how I want to do things.”

Not only is the subject clearly not up for debate, but Lindsey’s now on her guard, her shoulders rigid and eyes cold as she glares out over the street. This isn’t how I imagined this going. The contentment from earlier, the exhilaration of running through the streets, diminishes into nothing. She can flip the switch from summer to winter faster than anyone I’ve seen.

I pull my phone from my pocket, selecting the music app and tapping a random country station. Hopefully the moment isn’t ruined by one of my old songs. You know—one of the ones written about my ex-wife. Talk about a buzz kill. Lindsey glances at me, but I just tuck the phone in my pocket and reach out to her.

“Dance with me.”

There’s still a hard edge to her eyes, but she rolls them. At least there’s that. “Be more of a cliché.” We stare at each other for a few moments before she laces her fingers in mine and spins into me. “If you’re going to dance with me on a rooftop at twilight, do it some justice and make it as cheesy as possible.”

She squeals when I dip her low, the end of her ponytail grazing the gravel, then I sweep her into a two-step. “Twilight?” I crack.

“You know—whatever it’s called between sunset and midnight. Don’t blame me for our generational gap, old man.”

I press her tighter against me, the body that’s most definitely not old. Generational gap, my ass. “You’re wounding my decrepit heart.”

Lindsey giggles, but a stiff, cold wind brings her snuggling closer to me. She’s still got my jacket, but I don’t ask for it back. Not when she’s warm and soft in my arms.

“Jenson?” she asks, her voice uncharacteristically small and serious.

I look down at her, but her temple’s against my chest and she’s looking off toward the city. “Yeah?”

“What’s going on with you? You don’t ever talk about the things you’ve been through, and I saw the look on your face after rehearsal. And then you just disappeared.”

I force myself to shrug, though she’s not looking at me, and this conversation is anything but casual. “It’s nothing. Just the usual anxiety. I’ve been out of the game for a while.” When will I be done with this—reducing my issues to “nothing” in order the spare the people I care for most from my fucked-up reality? I’m a mess when I write. Destructive and self-deprecating. But it’s the way I’ve always done things. It’s how I produce my best stuff. I didn’t expect anyone to notice.

I feel her sigh through my shirt. “Is that why your mother was so worried about you? Why Carter was acting so distant at the studio? You don’t owe me an explanation, but you should know by now you can trust me. Talk to me, if you need to.”

This time it’s me who’s gone rigid, barely swaying back and forth to music that’s too fast for our steps. Excuses dance on the tip of my tongue, denial ready to guard the truth that lingers behind the steel trap of my resolve. But how far has compartmentalizing my problems gotten me? I’m finishing a handle of whiskey in a handful of days, and my throat will still ache for more afterward. I switch between the usual options of hating myself and feeling determined to change something almost hourly. I have the tools I need to cope without liquor, I just refuse to use them—to revert to where I was when I crawled into rehab with nothing left but money and a fragile reputation.

After almost a minute of silence, Lindsey looks up at me, eyes soft and curious and forgiving, and my shoulders cave. “I have a problem,” I admit, the words like sandpaper on my tongue. I haven’t had to fess up to anyone since Raven. Even then, I didn’t really fess up. I just burnt our house down when I was blacked out. After that, there was no hiding my skeletons.

And what have I even been doing with Lindsey? Hanging in a blissful state of denial while I pretend the black parts of my life don’t exist. She deserves honesty. She may be guarded, but she’s never omitted as much as I have. That I’m almost sure of.

Remembering my mom’s vulnerable words, I continue. “I’ve always lived for music, breathed for music. I need it as much as I need air. But the fame part has never been easy. I think it’s common among artists to have two separate parts of themselves—one they show the world and one they keep for family and friends. I could never do that. The two halves of my life were battling it out while I tried to play mediator. And the business side? Forget about it. All the pressure to sell records and please fans and set fashion trends was just. . . I couldn’t cope. Drinking made everything easier. I’d get hammered before shows and hardly remember the performance we put on, but based on the stories I was told, people were eating it up. Everything became easier. I had no inhibitions to throw my music out there and pretend I didn’t care whether people loved it or hated it.

“Then the show would end and I would go back to living with my wife and doing chores around the house, discussing sales with the record label, writing songs when I had the chance. I was feeling more and more distanced from the one thing that brought me everything good in my life. Naturally, I didn’t tell Raven any of this. We’d started dating before I was anyone; she didn’t care about the money or the stardom, she just cared about the boy she’d met at a greasy little bar in Knoxville. But I outgrew him. I wasn’t the same kid with no worries. I just assumed she couldn’t handle it either.”

At some point, we’ve stopped dancing, but my fingers are still laced in Lindsey’s. She squeezes them, encouraging me to go on. Sympathy swims in her eyes. I silence my phone, because not much could make this moment any worse, but a lively song at the wrong moment would piss me the hell off. If she thought what I’ve said so far was painful, she has no idea. The wounds in my heart throb at the thought.

“Anyway, I was already halfway to losing her and I didn’t even know it, but then we got pregnant.” At that, she raises her eyebrows. Her surprise is understandable, who would assume this story could turn into such a nightmare? “I should’ve changed before that, but suddenly I had this big reason. She lost the baby at twenty weeks. Emberly. Nothing we’d accomplished, nothing we had, could save her. An innocent life snubbed out before she could even realize her potential. Everything felt meaningless after that. If I was out of control before, at that point I was spiraling. Raven was mourning the loss of the baby she grew in her belly for months, and I was drowning my sorrow in whiskey and writing the darkest fucking songs I’d ever written. I abandoned her at the absolute worst time I could’ve abandoned her. And then I had the balls to be sad that I was such a failure.”

Hurt flashes in Lindsey’s eyes, and I stare daggers at the sky because it’s better than fully feeling the burn in my eye sockets. I’m not too proud to cry, but I don’t deserve to. It’s Raven I ruined. I swallow and go on. The story deserves to be told. “Somehow, she stayed with me. Then, one day, on the anniversary of losing our daughter, I drank myself into such a stupor that I didn’t realize I’d burnt our house down until I sobered up enough to see Raven crumbling beside my hospital bed. By herself. That’s what I’d done to her—isolated her, strung her along so I wouldn’t have to be alone with my doubts, then mentally checked out because I couldn’t deal with the guilt, the expectations, the anxiety of all this shit that’d become way too big for me. Jenson King—annihilator of all things that are good.”

Pain grows in my chest, and I struggle against the anguished growl that threatens to rip through me. Not only have I stirred up every broken, painful part of my past, but I’ve basically just dug my own grave. This is it, the moment I become alone again. Maybe that’s what this is, Lindsey and me—another lie. Just so I don’t have to face the desolation of my life alone.

“The rest is Google history, as you know. Raven filed for divorce, I fought her every step of the way, and she didn’t even ask me for a penny. She just wanted out. If you can believe it, my drinking got even worse. I’ve tried rehab, but nothing stuck. And now I’m here, trying to piece together what remains of my career, the livelihood of my band, my life.”

Lindsey’s been listening raptly, her eyes filled with tears she doesn’t shed. She grips my hands in hers. “You don’t get any better because you don’t believe in it. How do you expect to change if you don’t have any faith?”

I want to laugh in her face. Of course I don’t have faith. And why would I? “How do I find faith when everything I’ve believed in is in shambles?”

“You find faith when you find your heart. Passion.”

“I have plenty of heart, and it hurts like a bitch.”

She releases me and turns away, but I get a glimpse of her hurt. Her unfettered anger. “Why does alcohol get a say in it? Why does it get that control? Power is where you perceive it, and as soon as you stop looking for reasons to change and realize that you are a reason, you are enough, you won’t ever get that power.”

Like it could be that easy. I glare at her, and she glares back.

“You need to fight for your life. Fight for yourself. You need someone who will fight with you.”

My eyes narrow. “You think you know too damn much.”

Lindsey doesn’t even flinch. She steps so close to me I have to look down at her. “You know why? Because, honestly, I have no real faith in anyone but myself. I’d rather put my heart in a vault than unleash it in this hell. So what do I do? I keep people a comfortable distance away and make them my projects, try to help them sort out their stupid mistakes because I’m too much of a coward to make my own. It’s nothing compared to yours, but that’s my story.”

“That’s hardly a story. You haven’t told me anything about you or why you have a chip on your shoulder the size of Texas.”

She crosses her arms defiantly. “That wasn’t on accident.”

“I didn’t think so, but I’ve just laid out all my shit, knowing no one in their right mind will hang around to witness how it ends. You can at least tell me what’s got you so guarded. What do you have to lose?”

Her eyes flit between mine, debating. Silent wheels of thought churning in her mind. “Maybe later.”

I don’t push her. Instead, I say, “Later, lovely. I’ll hold you to it.”